


Pendulum

by kanashiiro



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 3am sex, Dubious Consent, EngSpa, England tops, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rough Sex, SpUk, UkSp, join the angst train, spain bottoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-04-24 09:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4913527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanashiiro/pseuds/kanashiiro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After particularly rough nights with Netherlands, Spain always ends up on England’s doorstep, bruised and heartbroken. And England, with his painfully unrequited love, is all too willing to help piece Spain together again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something I ground out in between agonizing over my university applications. I apologize for any mistakes there may be. Part two coming soon.

England awoke to a sharp knocking sound and the muted murmur of rain. He glanced blearily at his bedside clock’s bright numbers, and swore under his breath. Three in the morning. Bloody hell. Rolling out of his warm bed, he staggered out of his room, down the hall, and to the front door, barely pausing to flick on the lights and curse quietly at the cold hardwood floor in the hallway.

“Who is it?” he demanded, hand resting on the lock. The knocking ceased.

“Just me,” came a weary, familiar voice.

England opened the door, and his heart wrenched at the sorry sight before him.

A drenched and despondent Spain stood over the threshold, his curls plastered to his head and his teeth chattering. Spain’s eyes, usually so bright and cheerful, were glazed and slightly swollen. He had been crying.

The snide comment England had been forming died rather quickly. He silently stepped to the side, letting Spain shuffle in. As Spain entered the warm glow of the well-lit room, England’s eyes casually flickered over Spain’s shivering body.

His soaked shirt, translucent with rain, stuck to his torso. England eyed Spain’s thin frame, marvelling at how the fragile the ex-empire looked. Raindrops like crystals adorned long eyelashes. Limp locks of hair framed high, proud cheekbones and fell into downcast eyes. England resisted the strong urge to reach out and brush the dripping hair aside.

Raindrops beaded Spain’s skin; they clung to his pale cheeks and fell softly from his proud jaw to the carpet. England couldn’t find the heart to scold Spain for getting his carpet wet, even if it had been the Turkish masterpiece he had won at an auction back in 1822.

“I’ll get you a towel,” England finally said, after a beat of silence. Spain said nothing.

When England returned and offered the fluffy towels, Spain still didn’t react. He was frowning into space, eyes unfocused. There was another silence, then England reached forward and gently wrapped a towel around Spain’s shoulders. He used the other to pat Spain’s cheeks dry, then attempted to dry his hair, except Spain was too tall.

Spain said nothing as England led him to a spindly wooden chair and sat him down for a better access to his hair. Spain sat in silence as England briskly but gently rubbed his curls with the towel.

“Come get changed,” England said as he finished, placing the towel aside and pulling Spain to his feet. He continued to hold Spain’s cold hand as he towed him to the bedroom.

England busied himself with finding some more clean towels and a fresh change of clothes as Spain stood dazedly at the door. England nudged Spain to the bathroom, shoving the clean linen in his arms. The door clicked closed, and England collapsed on the bed, his mind a muddled mess.

He recognized this pattern.

Spain and Netherlands would get into arguments, and then it would become physical. Sometimes it was a fistfight, sometimes it was violent sex. Then, after being kicked out by Netherlands, Spain would humbly drag his bruised and heartbroken self to England’s doorstep for a place to sleep.

And England, with his painfully unrequited love, would seize the opportunity to hold Spain, caress him, kiss him, make love to him, all while Spain’s spirit was temporarily shattered. He’d help piece Spain back together. And in the morning, Spain would take flight, with a new optimism that he could still make the relationship with his beloved Netherlands work.

And England would be alone again. 

But maybe this time would be different.

Or so he had told himself, over and over again.

When the bathroom door clicked open, England propped himself up. He watched as Spain emerged, hesitantly walked to the bed, and gingerly perched upon the edge next to England. Spain looked down at his slightly shaking hands.

“Thank you for everything,” he said in a small voice. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No,” England said, a little more hastily than intended. He cleared his throat. “You can take the bed. It’s alright.”

Spain peered at England through his half-dried curls, his expression uncertain.

“If it’s okay,” he said doubtfully.

There was another pause as they sat side by side on the edge of England’s bed.

England watched Spain closely. A bruise was beginning to bloom on Spain’s cheek. His eyes were still slightly puffy. His lips were swollen. There was a kiss mark on his neck; another on his delicate collarbone peeked out from just above the collar of the borrowed shirt. And were those teeth marks at the juncture of his slender neck and shoulder?

The thought of Netherlands having his rough way with Spain made England sick with anger. His stare hardened as he imagined the marks that were hidden under the shirt.

Spain fidgeted under England’s unblinking glare, trying his best to feign ignorance. He fumbled with the hem of the shirt he had borrowed, twisting the soft material with his nervous fingers.

“Spain,” England said.

Spain looked up. His eyes widened at the raw emotion in England’s eyes, but he did not waver.

He didn’t protest as England moved closer.

He didn’t protest as England kissed him.

And the floodgates finally shattered as passion surged forth, and Spain was helplessly caught up like a delicate paper ship in England’s tempestuous flood of emotions.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England's self control shatters a bit and Spain can't find it in himself to resist, really. (There's sexual content in this chapter.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we have another chapter of both of them taking advantage of each other while crumbling under the weight of guilt and self hatred. Third part will be up soon. (But I’m still struggling with applications, so it may take a while to finish and edit. I’ll do my best though...)

Spain had never intended for it to turn out this way.

His mind was a muddled mess of confusion and hurt, but through the haze of negative emotions he heard a resonating voice in his head ask, ‘what are you doing?’

Wrong, wrong, he was doing everything wrong; he was taking advantage of England’s kindness, he was imposing upon England’s hospitality so late in the night and now he was taking advantage of England’s feelings.

But Spain was hurt and he was lonely; he felt as if he was fruitlessly reaching out in the dark for something, anything, and England was the soft light ahead that offered warmth and protection. England was the urgent kisses, the soft caresses, the threaded fingers in his hair, the open mouthed kisses on his neck, the gentle embrace-- everything he craved. It was heavenly, this feeling of salvation at the very brink of despair, but Spain knew didn’t deserve it, and bitterly hated himself for being so easily moved by England’s passion. But it was just so, so wonderful--

And Netherlands had been so cruel, so hateful, and after a violent evening of rough verbal and physical conflict after what seemed at first to be simply a small quarrel, Spain’s mental state had crumbled. His mind whirled with blurry thoughts and he was a mess of hurt and shock and he felt like there were a thousand cuts on his body and he was bleeding out, growing colder and colder, and somehow, somehow, he stumbled into the rainy night and found himself on England’s doorstep again. And now, in England’s arms.

That was how it always went.

And each time, after intoxicating debauchery, Spain would decide, with a sense of finality, that it was the _last_ time.

Yet here he was again, kissing England, the distance between their bodies rapidly disappearing.

England tugged relentlessly on Spain’s shirt, pulling Spain towards him, and somehow, in the span of a few seconds of passionate kissing and persistent tugging, Spain found himself straddling England’s lap.

England deepened the kiss, distracting Spain as his hands moved down to Spain’s hips. And then, England’s hips abruptly jerked up as he directed Spain’s hips downwards, and they met halfway, generating a friction that made the two gasp. Spain threw back his head, moaning helplessly as England continued to grind against him. England took the chance to kiss and suckle Spain’s bared neck, enjoying the small vibrations of Spain’s moans against his lips. He left a kiss mark, round and red and very obvious, and before Spain could descend from his blissful stupor and reprimand him, he ground upwards into Spain’s erection more roughly than before.

Spain was hazily aware of himself breathlessly crying out England’s name as waves of pleasure spread through his sore body before England stole another hungry kiss.

And then Spain drew back, gasping, the word _stop_ on his lips, but he saw the desperate look in England’s eyes and bit back the phrase, wordlessly allowing England to pull him down for another kiss.

\-- 

This was what England lived for.

Spain, in his lap, making delicious little gasping noises. Spain, dazed and weak and vulnerable in his arms. Spain’s hurt and guilt visibly fading, replaced by the lust that England had so forcefully coaxed out. Spain’s dazed expression right after a kiss; his eyes begging _touch me kiss me fuck me_.

And England was all too happy to oblige, despite the small voice in his head firmly telling him just how sick and twisted this was. It was wrong, all wrong.

He paused, vacillating between ecstasy and self loathing. Ecstasy, because Spain was here, weak and willing. Self loathing, because he was very aware that he was about to take advantage of Spain’s troubled emotional state for his own selfish, carnal desires.

But Spain shyly ground down against England with a small mewl, half sleepy, half aroused, and England’s thoughts scattered and his doubts dissipated.

He stilled Spain’s hips, his fingers moving to the hem of the borrowed shirt. Spain recognized England’s intentions and obediently lifted his arms so that the shirt could be peeled off and discarded without a second glance.

Spain balanced in England’s lap, waiting and shivering slightly from the cool air. England silently observed the galaxy of crimson hickeys and violet bruises on Spain’s body, the gently arcing scratches that resembled shooting stars and the crescent-shaped nail marks. Carefully regulated the expression on his face, so that his ugly jealousy would not be seen.

His fingers danced along the smooth arch of Spain’s back as he pressed kisses into Spain’s shoulder. He left a trail of kisses from Spain’s shoulder to his clavicle to the area right above his quickly beating heart.

Spain flinched when England began to lavish attention on his chest with lips and tongue. England marveled at how sensitive Spain was. His fingers ghosted down Spain’s sides, making him squirm.

He was getting positively drunk on Spain’s moans and gasps and abrupt little movements.

But he was aware of Spain shivering despite the heat of his skin under England’s lips and fingertips, and he remembered that Spain was exhausted. England pulled back and gently maneuvered Spain onto the bed, so that he lay on his back.

England tugged on the waistband of the borrowed flannel pants and borrowed boxers. Spain submissively raised his hips, allowing the pants to be pulled off, exposing his erection to the cool air of England’s room.

England looked down at Spain, who was laid out before him like a feast. He pointedly ignored the multitude of marks Netherlands had left; instead, he focused on everything else: Spain’s desperate expression, the wanton look in his darkening green eyes, his adorably mussed hair, his slightly parted lips, his beautiful collarbones. His legs, hesitantly spread, and what looked like a painful erection, begging to be touched.

He just looked so, so fuckable.

England moved forward and took Spain’s erection into his mouth before his mind could order it. It was a familiar salty, musky taste; one that he tasted more in dreams than real life. He slowly dragged his tongue from the base to the head along the sensitive underside, enjoying the sound of Spain’s soft swearing as he did so. He lapped precum from the tip, relishing how he could make Spain fall apart at the flick of his tongue.

England licked the sensitive tip like a lolly as his hand pumped up and down, then paused to coat his own middle finger in saliva. He continued his administrations to Spain’s erection as he gently pushed his slicked finger into Spain’s twitching hole.

As he increased the pace and added another finger, he became aware that there was less resistance than usual and that Spain was already sensitive. Spain stretched readily for England’s fingers and judging by the increase in Spain’s moans, he was feeling it already. England landed at the unpleasant realization that Spain’s ass had already been thoroughly used.

England had already known, to some degree, that Netherlands had fucked Spain tonight; the kiss marks and scratches should have been proof enough. Yet he couldn’t help the fresh surge of anger as he happened upon yet another piece of evidence.

Jealousy made him want an indication, any indication, that Spain wanted him.

Anger made him cruel.

As he sensed Spain’s impending orgasm, he formed a tight ring with his index finger and thumb at the base of Spain’s erection. Spain cried out in confusion as his body shuddered and heaved but his orgasm was denied. England continued to lick and suck Spain’s weeping erection as he slammed his fingers into Spain’s asshole. Spain’s hips wildly jerked upwards as he tried to escape England’s strong grip, but England remained smoothly unperturbed, taking Spain deeper into his throat. His fingers remained firm around the base of Spain’s cock, cruelly denying Spain’s orgasm. Spain’s fingers grasped at England’s hair, tugging incessantly.

England continued, until Spain was sobbing.

And at long last, he heard the words he had been waiting to hear.

“Fuck me.”


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which England's self control is finally chucked out the window. Sexual content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! 
> 
> Here's a continuation to the twisted mess I've somehow created. Fourth part will be up soon.

“Fuck me.”

The words echoed in England’s head as he lunged towards his nightstand, where he kept condoms and lube. 

Fumbling fingers rolled the condom onto his neglected erection. He squeezed out a liberal amount of lube onto his hands, and coated himself with a few brusque strokes as he positioned himself between Spain’s legs.

He paused, deliberately keeping the head of his erection just shy of entering, relishing the needy and impatient expression on Spain’s face.

And just as Spain opened his mouth to hurry him, England eased his hips forward. The tip entered with barely any resistance, and England was reminded that he was not Spain’s first for tonight.

The hot flash of jealousy colored his vision red; his hips involuntarily snapped forward, and in that moment he buried himself to the hilt.

It was too much for Spain. With a broken little cry he came, spilling his seed over his own chest and stomach. England stilled his hips, wrestling with guilt and pleasure at pushing Spain over the edge so soon. He remained motionless, keenly watching Spain at the apex of pleasure, committing to memory the glorious sight before him.

Once he deemed Spain lucid enough, he began to move. 

It was so raw, so intense; the friction almost unbearable. Sensory overload.

He kept a slow, excruciating rhythm, savoring the way his name tumbled from Spain’s kiss-swollen lips, as if it were a prayer or a curse. He watched Spain’s body flinch from the force of each thrust. 

“You’ve absolutely no stamina tonight,” England ground out, as his hips thrust forward at a steady pace. Though it was their habit to insult each other even during sex, he felt a little guilty after the snarky observation slipped out-- Spain was exhausted and probably oversensitized.

“Que te jodan,” Spain snapped. “Fuck you.”

England laughed breathlessly, his guilt forgotten.

“You already are, love.”

He reached down, grabbing Spain’s half-hard cock, and started stroking again. Spain wailed, partially in pain and partially in pleasure, as his overstimulated body was further assaulted. Tears slipped from his eyes, and he stifled a sob. But despite his anguished appearance, he was rapidly stiffening in England’s hand.

Seeing his effect on Spain, England grinned to himself. Spain saw.

“¡Puta!” he snarled.

“I’m just helping you feel good,” came England’s honeyed reply, made less sweet by the snicker that followed.

The conversation lapsed, and the room was filled instead with the creaking protests of England’s bed and the sound of sex.

Minutes later, Spain broke the silence again.

“England--”

“Hmm?”

“I’m-- going to--”

“Again? So fast,” England murmured, amused.

“Shut up,” Spain gasped.

A few more thrusts, then Spain was done for.

England held him with vice-like strength, lavishing bites and kisses on his bared neck, as Spain fell apart in his arms.

As Spain came, he choked on a name. Not England’s name.

Murderous anger boiled in England’s mind. He pushed Spain into the bed, flipping him over so that he was on his hands and knees. Spain, in a post orgasmic daze, processed it all very slowly and did not protest at first, but when England repositioned himself and pushed in again, Spain cried out in distress. 

He was already painfully sensitive from his orgasm mere seconds ago, and the countless ones induced by both England and Netherlands earlier in the night. He was absolutely exhausted from lack of sleep and the conflict with Netherlands earlier. He struggled to keep his frail grasp on reality as pleasure and fatigue violently assaulted his fragile mind. His head swam and he began to see black spots.

“Ah,” he managed to gasp, as his vision cleared for a second before blurring again. The wallpaper of England’s room was such a nice color. He had never noticed it before, though he had been fucked into England’s bed countless times now.

He should have abhorred this kind of vicious treatment more but at some point the pain melted with the pleasure and he lost the ability to think and his lips could only repeat a muffled mantra of ‘please’ and ‘slow down’ and ‘too much.’

But England was too far gone to obey Spain’s wishes. He had lost all semblance of restraint.

He felt as if he were flying, soaring, as if ecstasy ran through his veins. The pleasure of power, the triumph of domination, the savage thrill of cruelty. The delicious fruits of his patience, after he had waited and waited and waited for Spain to fall back into his lustful embrace.

It was everything he lived for.

But at the same time he was angry and he was breaking, because Spain was not yet his, because Netherlands still held Spain’s heart, and because he knew that if nothing changed tonight, the hourglass would turn again and the cycle would restart and he would return to another agonizing solitary wait for Spain to be broken enough to come back.

“Choose me,” he whispered into Spain’s ear, as he thrust into him with bone-shattering force.

Spain said nothing, only gasped as England hit his sweet spot again and again.

“Don’t go back to him,” England pleaded. “Stay with me.”

A series of shallow, sharp jabs rendered both speechless for a few minutes.

“He only hurts you,” England mumbled. “But I won’t hurt you.”

Brutal thrusts. England gripped Spain’s bucking hips with bruising strength. He leaned down and trailed kisses across Spain’s back, leaving kiss marks here and there. Adding to the galaxies and constellations that Netherlands had created.

“I need you,” England choked out. “I need you so much.”

As he approached his climax, his powerful thrusts grew erratic. Spain was close too; he desperately ground his hips against England’s, seeking friction. England reached down and began roughly stroking Spain. As Spain climaxed with a desperate cry, England too found himself pushed past the tipping point.

“Don’t leave me,” England begged over and over again, as he came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a slightly more twisted end to this chapter, but in the interest of maintaining some level of decency and upholding public morals I opted against including it. Ahaha...
> 
> Thanks so much for the kudos and comments, they're very helpful in motivating me to keep working on this piece :D I'm expecting to post the fourth part soon, I just need to edit before putting it up.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story comes to a close.

England awoke to the scent of Spain and warm sunlight. Impossibly close, limbs tangled, arms wrapped around each other, breathing in sync-- it was like a dream. A dream that England had yearned to come true for longer than he cared to admit.

He lay there, basking in euphoric happiness. He watched Spain sleep, admiring his dark graceful lashes and lovely pink lips. His straight nose, his proud jaw. Reddish copper glints in his curls, dancing in the soft rays of sunlight. Spain shifted away slightly in his sleep, but England held on tightly.

England’s wandering mind idly presented him with distant memories. Good-naturedly shouting insults at each other above and across the roaring ocean, each perched precariously on the deck of his own ship. Exchanging ancient versions of “your mom” jokes in a tavern over strong ale. Drunken brawling amidst hoarse shouts and overturned barstools. Debauchery in dark London alleys.

He thought of days when they were both drunk off of their brutal rivalry and the thrill of conquest, brash adventure, and destruction. When they focused only on their competition: an all-consuming obsession with each other. When they had hate sex rather than comfort sex. When England tried his best to break Spain, instead of trying his best to put him together again. But it was all different now. He wasn’t sure what he preferred. This certainly hurt a bloody hell of a lot more, though.

A few more moments of precious bliss. Then Spain rolled around again, nuzzling affectionately into England’s chest, and England felt himself experience something akin to heart failure. He lay there, his heart recovering and taking off again at an impossibly fast speed, as Spain slept in his arms, oblivious.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours, or maybe lifetimes, but it was over in a heartbeat to England. Spain began to stir, and though England prayed for Spain to fall back asleep, his prayers went unanswered.

“Mornin’,” came Spain’s sleepy voice.

“Good afternoon,” England replied.

Spain hummed as he lay peacefully in England’s arms. They stayed that way for a few moments, then Spain began to pull away.

England was about to ask if Spain wanted blueberry or cinnamon pancakes, and if he wanted to try the new fancy maple syrup Canada had given him, but the question died and his heart froze as he registered Spain’s expression. A horrid sense of déjà vu spread through him.

“You’re going back to him?” England asked, in a hollow voice. His head began to pound and the room seemed unnaturally bright. Everything felt unreal.

“I’m sorry,” Spain said.

He gently detangled himself from England’s arms, wriggling out from under the blankets. And with a rustle as he donned his clothes, and a lingering kiss on England’s lips, Spain was gone.

England lay, cold and alone and desperately wanting. Bleeding out.

But it was fine, he told himself numbly. Spain would be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, writing this was an adventure. It was fun to explore the complex emotions and dynamic relationships and I certainly hope I’ve done them justice. Please don't hate Spain. (LOL)
> 
> Who knows, maybe I'll pick this up again sometime. Very tempting. But as much as I would love to elaborate on this and develop the plot and characters further, I’m not sure if I’ll have the time to continue this story in the coming months. If I were to continue this, though, I’d say there’s a high probability of a happy ending. Should I continue?
> 
> Anyways, I’d like to thank you all so much for your support during this project. Kudos and comments have been incredibly motivating for me, especially when I’m in a rut. I love you all.
> 
> Cheers!


End file.
